35

Mahoney got to Doug Thorpe’s place at six thirty in the morning—about the time DeMarco landed in Washington and about the time Leonard Curtis’s body was found.

His plane had landed in Billings at four a.m. and Mahoney should have been tired after the long flight from Washington, but for some reason he wasn’t. He felt great, and was glad he’d decided to come to Montana. Mavis had arranged for a car to be waiting for him in the rental car parking lot, the keys and the rental papers inside it. He hopped into the car and took off, enjoying the solitary drive to Thorpe’s place as the sun rose over Montana.

But Thorpe wasn’t home when Mahoney got to his cabin, which surprised him. Thorpe knew he was arriving this morning and he was certain the man wasn’t inside the cabin sleeping because Doug Thorpe had never slept past five a.m. in his life. He wondered where he could be. Mahoney took a seat in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and listened to the Yellowstone rolling by. He was looking forward to seeing his old friend in spite of the circumstances.

Half an hour later, Thorpe’s pickup swung into the driveway. Thorpe stepped out of the vehicle and waved when he saw Mahoney. He moved stiffly as he walked toward the porch—like his joints were stiff after a long drive. Mahoney hadn’t seen Thorpe in quite a few years but he was struck as he always was with how . . . how noble Thorpe looked. Some men are blessed with a certain kind of face—men like Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda or Gary Cooper—those old movie stars who almost always played the good guy because they just looked like good guys. Mahoney certainly didn’t have that kind of face but Doug Thorpe did.

When Thorpe reached the porch, Mahoney stuck out his hand for Thorpe to shake but Thorpe held up his hands and said, “Gotta go wash my hands; had a flat tire.”

Mahoney noticed that in addition to his hands being black and grimy, the sleeves of Thorpe’s Pendleton shirt were filthy, as might be expected if he’d changed a tire, and again Mahoney wondered where he’d been, but didn’t ask. Instead he said, “I’m sorry, Doug. I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“John, I don’t want to talk about sorry.” He didn’t say anything more for a moment and Mahoney didn’t know what to say, then Thorpe said, “I know it’s kind of early in the day, but do you feel like sippin’ some whiskey?”

“I can’t think of a better idea,” Mahoney said.

Thorpe went into the cabin and came back a short time later, with clean hands and wearing a fresh blue denim shirt and holding a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two water glasses. An old black-and-white dog had followed him out of the cabin. The dog plopped down between the two rocking chairs and Thorpe poured the whiskey.

“You remember,” Thorpe said, “that time we went into Saigon with that big redheaded kid from Detroit, the one who had lenses in his glasses thicker than the bottom of that whiskey bottle? I can’t remember his name.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that goofy bastard. His name was Kellogg, like the corn flakes. I remember once when we were out in a rice paddy and he lost his glasses. I was sure he was going to shoot one of us.”

Thorpe laughed. “But that time in Saigon, we were in that club that fat French guy owned, and . . .”

Two hours later, they were both pretty drunk, Thorpe more than Mahoney because Mahoney was no stranger to booze in the morning. A car that said Custer County Sheriff pulled into the driveway and an old cop, a heavyset guy in his sixties, got out of the car. He tugged on the wide belt holding his gun and handcuffs, and Mahoney bet the sheriff spent half the day tugging up that belt.

“Is one of you Douglas Thorpe?” the sheriff asked.

“I am,” Thorpe said.

“Mr. Thorpe, can you tell me where you were last night?”

Before Thorpe could answer, Mahoney said, “Why are you asking?”

“And who are you, sir?” the sheriff said.

“United States Congressman John Mahoney.”

The sheriff looked at him more closely, then said, “Hell, I recognize you. You used to be the Speaker of the House.”

“That’s right,” Mahoney said. “So why are you asking where my friend was last night?”

“Well, sir, a man named Leonard Curtis was shot and killed last night in his hotel room and the Bismarck cops asked me to come out here and ask where Mr. Thorpe was last night.”

“He was right here with me,” Mahoney said. “We’ve been sipping whiskey all night talking about when we were young bulls in Vietnam. Are you by any chance a veteran, Sheriff?”